


Letting The Days Go By

by lamujerarana



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Romance, Sex in a Car
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 20:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamujerarana/pseuds/lamujerarana
Summary: Abraham Garfinkel, cop, and his fiancé, Chet Michaels, hot yoga instructor, know nothing of superheroes. They're just a happily engaged couple who recently purchased a home in the seemingly quiet town of Pleasant Hill.Except, they'll discover eventually, there's a dark secret lurking at the heart of Pleasant Hill that will irrevocably change their lives.Because they aren't those people at all. They are actually Peter Parker, the Amazing Spider-Man, and Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, who are close and devoted friends, but never lovers.A 'What If?' story based on the 2016 Pleasant Hill storyline, except that in this story, Peter's there when the memory-wipe/reality-rewriting of the Avengers by Kobik, a sentient cosmic cube, occurs, and, of course, he winds up becoming Johnny's hot cop fiancé.





	Letting The Days Go By

**Author's Note:**

> I'd meant to finish this whole fic before this week, but it just didn't happen. It got longer than I'd planned! This is 7k and it's just the first scene!
> 
> So, anyways, I figured I'd post the beginning, at least, and add the rest once I'm done with it.
> 
> And, yes, Peter's last name is Garfinkel as an homage to Andrew Garfield, my fav live-action Spidey! (His family's name was originally Garfinkel.)
> 
> WARNING: There's some dubious consent in this fic, since Johnny and Peter are brainwashed into a sexual/romantic relationship when they aren't even dating. This issue will come up later, during the fallout of their realization of who they really are.

Peter's bored to death. It’s his first day as a cop here in Pleasant Hill—he and his fiancé moved into town only yesterday—and, as the new guy, he's been assigned the shift no one wants: patrolling the road on the outskirts of town. Not too far, of course, because jurisdiction and all that, but, well, no one, Peter is rapidly discovering, ever comes down this road.

It's just Peter in his patrol car and a couple of birds singing off in the towering, lush green trees that line a road that’s empty as far as the eye can see. Nothing but nature all around him.

There’s a quiet breeze that rustles through the trees every now and then, but otherwise? Dead silence.

Peter hates it more than he can say. It is unutterably dull. He’s humming a little to himself and tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, since there's nothing else to do. Even his phone doesn’t get a signal out here.

Which doesn’t help at all, because he’s mostly been trying his best not to think about the fact that he and his fiancé haven't had sex for days.

They've been so caught up in packing and unpacking and the details of the move here that they haven't done much of anything in ages. Which is unusual, because normally they can't keep their hands off each other.

Peter’s definitely, definitely not going to think about the ridiculously tiny little orange shorts Johnny was wearing yesterday while they were unpacking endlessly, box after box—who knew they cumulatively owned so much junk? Between Johnny’s twenty-three boxes of clothes and shoes and kitchen stuff and video games and Peter’s vast collection of books and amateur photography equipment—they own too much.

They were both so worn out after unpacking and arranging furniture all day that they dozed off at an embarrassingly early 7pm. To be more precise, Peter’d been lazily kissing Johnny’s neck while they were watching television to unwind in their sparsely decorated bedroom when Johnny had nodded off, right in the middle, and left Peter hanging.

But no. No. He’s not going to let himself think about Johnny at all.

He’s going to sit here, in the middle of nowhere, and do his job. Which is sitting. And doing nothing. Because there’s no one else here.

Peter’s not going to think about Johnny’s legs at all right now, no sirree. He’s not going to imagine what it’d be like to peel Johnny out of those tiny shorts, bite his way up Johnny’s smooth thighs, and leave a string of marks that’d ensure that Johnny wouldn’t be able to wear those shorts in public for a good long while.

He’s not going to think about it would make Johnny’s breath catch, how Johnny’s skin would flush so prettily all over, how Peter could chase that blush with his mouth as it crawled down Johnny’s chest—

Peter catches himself. No, goddammit, no. He told himself he wasn’t going to think about Johnny—not while he’s working. Protecting the good citizens of Pleasant Hill. He shouldn’t be daydreaming about his fiancé. It’s unprofessional and unbecoming a police officer, and this is only his first day on the job here in Pleasant Hill.

It’s going to be different than being a cop in New York City. He can already tell that it is.

Most importantly, it’ll be less dangerous. It’ll be nice, because Peter was shot in the shoulder two months ago, and Johnny handled it less well than Peter did, even though Peter was the one who’d been shot. His shoulder still twinges every now and then, especially when it’s cold out, but it mostly feels fine.

But at least now that they’ve moved to a random small town in Connecticut, Johnny won’t have to lie awake worrying all night about whether or not he’ll have a fiancé in the morning, because his fiancé will be lying right next to him the whole time…or maybe Peter'll be wedged between his spread thighs.

That’s good too.

Peter hadn’t considered the fact that their sex life will now have the chance to become even more regular. They won’t be reduced to quickies in the shower before they go their separate ways to Johnny’s yoga studio and Peter’s police station.

He lets his head thunk against the steering wheel as he realizes that he just did it again. What the hell is wrong with him? Doesn’t he have any self-control at all?

He suspects that where Johnny’s concerned, the answer is no.

Peter so busy not thinking about Johnny that he’s completely taken aback when a little red jeep speeds by out of nowhere. And by speeds, he means speeds. It’s mostly a blur, really. He thinks he got whiplash just from watching it rush past him.

Oh, thank god. Finally. This is exactly what he needs.

He scrambles to turn his patrol car on and take off after the jeep, sirens blazing.

It comes to a halt by the side of the road almost immediately, as though the driver had somehow known Peter was there and been expecting to be pulled over.

Peter steps out of his car, walks purposefully towards the jeep, feet crunching in the gravel that lines the side of the road, and finds that inside the offending vehicle is a breathtakingly beautiful blond man.

The man's rolled the window down before Peter gets there. “What seems to be the problem, officer?” he says innocently from behind a pair of expensive sunglasses. He doesn’t seem too worried about being pulled over.

Well, Peter’ll teach him to take this seriously. Speeding’s a serious offense, after all. Not to be taken lightly. He narrows his eyes. "Do you have any idea how fast you were going, sir?" he says, all business.

The man grins in a way that is unfairly charming, a fact of which he seems all too aware. “No? Too fast?"

Peter nods once, briskly. "Too fast."

“I like everything fast,” the man says in a way that’s clearly meant to be flirtatious. He pushes his sunglasses down so he can smoulder at Peter through a pair of blue eyes that are startling in both their beauty and intensity. “My cars, my men, it’s just the way I am.”

Hmph. Peter can tell. Thirty seconds in and he’s already flirting up a storm with Peter.

“Well, you’re going to have to start liking your cars a lot slower, sir,” Peter can’t resist saying. “Under the speed limit would be good.”

The man blows out a sigh and all but rolls his eyes. He sags back in his seat, seemingly annoyed that Peter didn’t take him up on his shameless flirting. “Well, officer, you see, it’s like this,” he explains. He pushes his sunglasses sourly back up his nose. “I was just on my way from work. You know, at the yoga studio that’s next to the tanning salon? I’m on my lunch break, and my fiancé—who, let me tell you, is an ungrateful jerk — asked me to bring him lunch.”

Peter doesn’t give him an inch. “Thoughtful of you, but that doesn't excuse reckless driving," he says disapprovingly. “Someone could have gotten hurt.”

“There’s no one on this road,” the man points out.

Which is fair, but, then again, “I was on this road,” Peter points out. “You could have run me over.”

“Oh, come on! You were in your patrol car! It was totally safe!”

“That doesn’t excuse it!” Peter snaps. “I could have not been! What if a cat had run across the road or something and I’d been chasing it?”

“What, are you a dog now? Why the hell would you be chasing a cat across the road?”

Peter throws his hands up. “Maybe it’s a missing cat, I don’t know!”

Johnny presses a hand to his face. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Abe,” he says wearily. “This was supposed to be sexy roleplaying. It was supposed to end with you handcuffing me and bending me over your patrol car or something. You ruined it. Why do you always have to ruin things when I try to get you to roleplay?”

“You broke the law!” Peter explodes. He thumps his hand against the gold little police badge that’s pinned over his heart. “I enforce the law! It’s my job, Chet!”

“And I’m your fiancé,” Johnny says, carefully emphasizing the word ‘fiancé.’ “I should get special treatment!”

“That’s not how the law works.”

Johnny stares at him levelly for a beat, then glances away. “You aren’t going to write me a ticket, are you, honey?” he says. His voice sounds cool, but Peter can hear the threat that’s hidden beneath. “Because if you are, there are a couple of presents I bought for you that are getting very canceled.”

Peter holds his hands up to pacify Johnny. “Whoa,” he says. He’s got a pretty good idea what those presents are, and he wants them. More specifically, he wants to see Johnny in them. Or them in Johnny, whenever applicable. “Now, let’s not get hasty. I never said I was giving you a ticket.”

“That’s what I thought,” Johnny sniffs. “So why are we arguing, again?”

“Because you broke—“ Peter breaks off and sighs exasperatedly. He drags a hand over his face. Nope. He can tell by the set of Johnny’s jaw that he’s never admitting he did anything wrong. “Never mind. You know what? Just never mind. Did you bring me my burger like I asked?”

“Burgers are bad for you. I brought you a salad.”

Peter’s stomach sinks. “No,” he says. “You didn’t. A salad? That’s—that’s terrible. Chet, honey, why do you hate me? I’m not a rabbit or something. I need…man food.”

“Man food? Abe, that is not a thing.”

“It is, it’s totally a thing. It’s...food men eat.”

“I’m a man and I eat tons of salad. Lots of men eat salad. It’s good for you. Makes you live longer.”

“Maybe I’d live longer,” Peter says ruefully, “but I sure as hell wouldn’t enjoy it.”

Johnny's eyes flash. "Maybe not," he snaps, "but I'd sure as hell enjoy not being a widower at forty."

"You're not gonna be a widower," Peter says dismissively. “I’m gonna live to be eighty, unless I get run over by my husband.”

Peter’s hoping that calling Johnny his husband will distract him enough to get him to drop the uncomfortable subject of Peter’s terrible eating habits.

Besides, Johnny’s overreacting. Just because he’s a health junkie doesn’t mean Peter has to be. Peter likes food, and he’s not giving it up, not even for his fiancé, who he loves more than anything. Well, anything except maybe hot dogs.

No one comes between Peter and his hot dogs. Hot dogs are sacred.

Johnny’s face is more serious than Peter thinks the situation warrants. “Abe,” he says quietly. “I'm serious. You’ve gotta stop eating like you’re still sixteen.”

Peter doesn’t know whether he finds Johnny’s concern deeply irritating or incredibly touching. Probably both.

“Hey, look at me,” Peter says. He raises his arms and flexes his biceps to show off. Despite the fact that his diet is truly atrocious, he never seems to gain any weight. He doesn’t work out all that much either, and yet…muscles everywhere. More toned than Johnny’s, and all Johnny does all day is yoga. “I’m a stud. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Johnny seems unconvinced. “I guess,” he says, in a subdued tone.

Johnny looks unhappy, and Peter can’t stand it when Johnny’s unhappy. Oh, god. He’s gonna have to do this, isn’t he?

“Fine,” he says bitterly. “I’ll eat the salad. Just stop making that face, will you?”

“Really?” Johnny says. He brightens instantly, but that quickly gives way to squinting suspiciously at Peter, who, admittedly, did give up awfully quickly. “You mean that?”

“Yeah,” Peter says wearily. “Fine. This once. We can talk about…whether or not it’ll be permanent later.”

For Johnny, it turns out, Peter will do anything. Even consider giving up his beloved hot dogs.

* * *

It doesn’t mean Peter can’t make thoroughly disgusted faces while he eats his salad.

“Are there…oranges in my salad?” Peter says, spearing the offending piece of fruit with his fork and eyeing it skeptically.

He and Johnny are sitting side by side in the back seat, picking away at their salads.

“Abe,” Johnny says, a hint of impatience in his voice. “It’s an orange romaine salad. There are supposed to be oranges in it.”

Peter sets the orange back down gently in his salad and then scooches it off to one side. “I don’t like this salad,” he decides. “It’s a terrible salad. There’s no meat in it, for one thing.”

Johnny snorts. “Typical. I make you a salad with my own two hands,” he complains, “drive all the way out to the middle of nowhere, get pulled over, this jerk cop almost gives me a ticket—“

“You were going seventy in a forty mile an hour zone, honey,” Peter says dryly. “You deserved a ticket. Also, I’m pretty sure this salad’s from a restaurant.”

“—just to bring you lunch,” Johnny continues, ignoring Peter entirely, “and this is the thanks I get. See if I bring you lunch again.”

He stabs viciously at his salad with his fork. His expression is surly.

That’s when Peter notices. “Hey, why doesn’t your salad have oranges in it?” he asks.

“Because I don’t like oranges in my salads,” Johnny says, like it’s so obvious. “It’s gross. Why do you think I gave you that one?”

Peter lets his fork drop into his salad and glowers at Johnny. “You gave me the gross salad on purpose?” he asks accusingly.

Johnny shrugs, but Peter can tell he’s trying hard not to smile. “I wanted to see if I could get you to eat it.”

“You jerk,” Peter hisses. This is a prank. He should have known. He starts checking under the seats. Johnny must’ve hidden it somewhere. “Where’s my burger?”

“What burger?” Johnny says. He’s still eating his salad calmly, but he’s also watching Peter’s every move amusedly. “I didn’t bring you a burger.”

“And fries,” Peter insists. “They’re here somewhere. I know you.”

Sure enough, Peter finds a white paper bag shoved under the front passenger seat. It’s still warm and slightly greasy. Just the smell of it makes Peter’s mouth water. He shakes it in Johnny’s face triumphantly. “Ha! I knew you weren’t that terrible.”

“Uh-huh,” Johnny says indifferently. “It’s a tuna sandwich, loser.”

Peter, disappointed, sinks back down into his seat. “I take it back. You are that terrible.” He opens the bag and finds that inside is a chili cheese burger. And fries. Just like he’d asked for. He gives Johnny a betrayed look. “Just why. Who hurt you?”

Johnny blinks. “What?”

“As a child. To make you this cruel.”

“It was just a prank, Abe,” Johnny says dismissively. “You have your burger, and I have the memory of the hilarious look on your face when you tried to eat that salad.”

The feeling of betrayal deepens. “I eat a disgusting salad because I love you and this is how you repay me?”

“You ruined my sexy roleplaying thing,” Johnny shoots back. “You deserve it. You’re an actual cop and I can’t get you to sexy roleplay as a cop. It’s disappointing, Abe. You should work on that.”

Peter sets his burger down on the seat next to him. Hey, if Johnny wants to mess with Peter, well, he can give Johnny a hard time too. “Aw, honey,” he coos, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize that you were so upset about me not fucking you—“

“Oh, come on, not this again—“

“—but we can always have sex right now. I mean, I know I’m great at sex and that’s why you’re always so desperate to get a piece of me—“

“That’s it,” Johnny says. “I have had it with you and—” He lobs a cherry tomato at Peter as viciously as he can. It bounces off of Peter’s forehead, and he wipes away the little spot of salad dressing it leaves behind with the back of his hand. He’s trying hard not to smirk too obviously. Giving Johnny a hard time is fun. His favorite pastime, even. “I am not desperate! Why do you always try to make it seem like I—I do not beg, you jackass!”

That’s when Peter lets himself smirk. He’s certain it’s about as smug as it can get.

He’s a little proud of the fact that he doesn't even have to say anything to make Johnny's cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink.

He’s certain they’re both thinking the same thing—when Peter really gets Johnny going, Johnny’ll say and do just about anything to get Peter to fuck him, and that includes begging.

"Shut up," Johnny says as resentfully as possible. “It doesn't count if it’s while you’re—if you make me do it on purpose. No. Stop it, Abe. I mean it.”

"Mm-hm," Peter says, graciously allowing Johnny to have a few small scraps of dignity. He’s a gentleman, after all.

Still, he does slide over on the seat until he’s pressed flush against Johnny and drapes his arm around Johnny's shoulders. Johnny eyes him warily.

Peter can tell that if he wants to get into Johnny’s pants, he’s going to need to turn up the charm. Johnny wants roleplaying? Peter’ll give him roleplaying. “Kees me, mon ami,” he says in his sexiest French accent.

Johnny will be putty in Peter’s hands after this. He just knows it. No one can resist Peter when he does his sexy French thing.

Instead, Johnny absolutely explodes with laughter—clutching at his sides, tears in his eyes, slapping at his knee, the whole bit—and Peter’s afraid he’s going to have an aneurysm.

“You idiot,” Johnny wheezes, rubbing at his eyes. “What are you doing? You sound exactly like Pepe le Pew.”

“Eet’s zexy,” Peter huffs. It’s not his fault if Johnny doesn’t appreciate his flawless Pepe. Peter’s great at imitations! “And I am zeducing you, mon ami.”

He picks up Johnny’s hand and starts to kiss it.

“That’s mon amour, you moron,” Johnny gripes. “Even I know that. Jesus, Abe, if you’re going to keep doing the French bit, you really need to learn some actual French.”

He’s trying his best to sound put out, but he’s smiling like he can’t help himself, so Peter suspects it’s all for show. Peter’s doubly sure about that because Johnny doesn’t object when Peter starts to kiss his way up his arm, and he even shivers a little when Peter makes it to the soft skin in the crook of his elbow. See? Putty.

“But why?” Peter says, mouthing up Johnny’s bicep. “Zees gets me vot I vant.”

“Yeah?” Johnny says like he’s humoring Peter. “And what would that be?”

Peter’s worked his way up to Johnny’s shoulder by now. He’s never been more grateful that Johnny’s become so obsessed by sleeveless tees because it makes it easy to shove the cloth aside and drag his mouth over the bare skin beneath. “Ze same zing I alvays want—”

“Uh-huh,” Johnny says, amused. “I know where this is going, you cornball.”

“—vich is you,” Peter finishes. His face is level with Johnny’s now. Johnny’s eyes are sparkling—he looks thoroughly delighted, but not swept away by the romance of it all. Peter frowns. “C’mon, honey, this is supposed to be romantic. Work with me a little! You’re killing all the romance in our relationship! It’s dead, and it’s your fault.”

“Abe,” Johnny says pityingly, “sweetheart. Be honest, do you really think other people think this is sexy, or is this just you clowning?”

“Lots of people think French things are sexy, Chet,” Peter snaps. “Paris! City of Love!”

“Real French accents are sexy. Yours isn’t real or sexy,” Johnny says. “The thing you were doing to my arm was hot, though. Keep going, lawman.”

Johnny tilts his chin and offers his neck up for Peter to kiss.

Peter doesn’t because he’s too busy being deeply offended by Johnny’s refusal to take his attempts at seduction seriously. Johnny just doesn’t appreciate romance.

“C’mon,” Johnny says, when Peter doesn’t instantly jump to kiss his neck. “You’re not gonna sulk because I didn’t like your French accent, are you?”

“No,” Peter says curtly, clearly sulking.

“I’m letting you kiss my neck!” Johnny points out. “It sort of worked—“ He cuts himself off and frowns. “—which is pretty embarrassing for both of us, if you think about it.”

Peter sighs. Johnny’s right, he supposes. His little seduction plot did work, even if it wasn’t exactly the way he planned, and there’s no way he’s going to turn down the chance to get into Johnny’s tight little yoga pants.

Peter grumbles something about being an unappreciated genius in his time, but he presses his lips to Johnny’s neck anyways, and mouths up until he’s sucking at that sensitive soft spot right below Johnny’s ear that he knows drives Johnny crazy. Johnny sighs and melts against Peter.

He’ll show Johnny who’s bad at seduction.

He smooths a hand up Johnny’s inner thigh and smiles when Johnny gives a little gasp and bucks up into his hand after he puts his hand over Johnny’s crotch and squeezes.

Yep. Peter’s definitely still got it. That makes him feel better, at least.

“Oh,” Johnny breathes. His hand is trembling where it’s locked in a death-grip around Peter’s forearm. “Abe, are you—are we gonna…oh.”

Peter presses his forehead against Johnny’s. A blush is beginning to spread slowly across Johnny’s face, and there’s a familiar fire in the depths of those clear blue eyes. “I dunno,” Peter says, pressing down Johnny’s crotch rhythmically. “Depends. Are you going to ask me to?”

“Oh,” Johnny chuckles. “Is that how it’s gonna be?”

Peter smiles in a way that’s verging on predatory. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “That’s exactly how it’s gonna be. If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to ask me to.”

He’s a little taken aback when Johnny unceremoniously shoves him away—is he saying no? That’s a first, because Johnny will normally let Peter do whatever he wants while loving every second of it—but it all makes sense when Johnny moves to straddle Peter’s lap and yanks his own shirt up over his head.

Peter feels like cheering, because, hell yes, he’s getting laid. He knows that hungry gleam in Johnny’s eyes. He knows what it means. If Johnny hasn’t given in and asked yet, he’s sure as hell going to by the time Peter’s through with him.

Peter bends his head forward enthusiastically and catches Johnny’s nipple with his mouth before Johnny can even toss his shirt away.

“Oh,” Johnny sighs, arching up into Peter’s mouth, his fingers finding their way into Peter’s hair so they can keep Peter’s mouth right where they want it, “yeah. That—keep doing that.”

Peter doesn’t really need to be asked. He knows what Johnny needs by now, after six months of sharing his bed with him.

Peter slips his hands down under the thin material of Johnny’s black yoga pants, squeezes roughly at the soft warm flesh he finds there, and simultaneously sinks his blunt teeth into Johnny’s nipple hard enough to leave little indentations when he eventually pulls away. Johnny whines, high-pitched, but it’s more pleasured than pained. This is how Johnny likes his sex—just this side of rough, and Peter’s more than happy to comply.

Peter alternates his attention between nipples until he’s sucked and licked both red and raw, and Johnny’s breath is quick and ragged, his fingers clutching at Peter’s hair so tightly it hurts.

Peter realizes belatedly that Johnny’s pulling at his hair to get him to move backwards, and when he does, he hardly has time to catch a breath before Johnny’s eager tongue is in his mouth.

They both groan when Johnny’s hips begin to grind down demandingly against Peter’s at last.

The rhythm of Johnny’s hips grows increasingly frantic now that he’s got something to rub against, and Peter’s countering by thrusting up into each roll of Johnny’s hips, and Johnny’s riding each one so perfectly and keening, and Peter’s so close to coming, and that’s it, that’s it, Peter can’t anymore. He has to fuck Johnny. He’s going to fuck Johnny. He can’t—refuses to come in his pants like a teenager, especially not when his boyfriend is here and clearly dying to be fucked.

Peter grips Johnny’s hips hard to still their motion.

Johnny jerks his head back. “What?” he says hotly. “Why the hell did you stop?”

Peter knows exactly what to say. He grins cheekily and says, “If you want to come, baby, you’re doing it around my cock. And I told you that if you wanted me to fuck you, you were going to have to ask.”

Johnny shudders. He’s far too worked up to hide how much he loves it when Peter takes control, and Peter loves nothing more than getting him to this point. Peter can tell he wants to say yes—it’s only his pride that’s in the way.

Peter can make him forget all about that. He dips his fingers down into the soft heat between Johnny’s asscheeks until he reaches Johnny’s hole, and, oh, god, Peter wants to hold him down, shove his way in, into the blinding heat inside of Johnny that’s for Peter, all for Peter, and fuck him until he’s so blissed out he doesn’t even remember what pride is.

Johnny’s breath stutters; his eyes go dark and hungry. He sways forward, drapes himself over Peter, face buried against Peter’s neck, hips rolling back into Peter’s fingers as he lets Peter do whatever he wants.

“Oh, god,” Johnny whispers, so quietly Peter hardly heard him, and Peter knows he’s won.

“Ask,” Peter says. “And I’ll give you what you want.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says huskily. “Yeah. Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Fuck me, Abe.”

“You didn’t say please,” Peter says.

“Don’t push your luck,” Johnny says. “I asked. Now fuck me.”

Peter doesn’t waste time. He carefully flips them so that Johnny’s lying on his back, spread across the backseat, and Johnny gasps in pleasure when Peter sets him down a little too forcefully.

Peter makes quick work of removing Johnny’s shoes and peeling off his tight pants.

He’s not surprised by the sight of Johnny’s cock, hard and red and weeping against his stomach, but he does, just to be a jerk, dip his head down, flatten his tongue, and lick over it in a long stripe, and grins when he hears the way Johnny curses.

“Don’t do that again, jackass,” Johnny scolds, “unless you want this to be over before you even get started.”

“Oh, believe me,” Peter says, leaning up to drop a kiss on Johnny’s mouth, “I’m going to make you come around my cock. I will play your body like a fiddle.”

Johnny’s scowl hasn’t lessened. “You are not as good at this as you think you are, Abraham Garfinkel.”

Peter has to laugh at that, because he’s great at this and they both know it. It’s one of his talents. He’s great at three things: martial arts, photography, and making Johnny Storm come like there’s no tomorrow. “Just for that,” he says, “I’m gonna make you come twice.”

“As if,” Johnny sneers, but the full effect of his scorn is somewhat undercut by the way he gasps and arches his back when Peter slips a finger into the cleft of his ass and rubs it against Johnny’s hole.

It’s been days since Peter’s fucked it. He’s not surprised that it’s more sensitive even than normal.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, not able to suppress a wry chuckle at the undeniable signs of how badly Johnny wants it. His whole body is tense and waiting for whatever Peter sees fit to give him. This could go to a guy’s head if he let it. Lucky that Peter’s such a sensible guy. “No way I’m getting you to come twice.”

“Jerk,” Johnny hisses.

“Keep it up and I’ll make it three,” Peter threatens, and that makes Johnny clam right up. He knows Peter can coax three orgasms out of him if he puts his mind to it. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Peter pushes Johnny’s knees up, spreads him apart, and frowns at what he sees—Johnny’s hole, small and tight and dusty pink. It’s been a good long while since Peter’s seen it look like that. Normally, he fucks it at least once a day and that ensures that it’s always at least somewhat loose and close to being ready for Peter’s cock.

It’s a little thrilling, getting to open Johnny up like it’s the first time, Peter has to admit. But still, getting Johnny ready to take Peter’s cock might take longer than Peter anticipated, and they do only have a limited amount of time.

“Hmm,” Peter says, frowning. “You’re too tight. I need to get you to loosen up.”

“Hey,” Johnny says, smirking. “Isn’t that my line?”

“Ha, ha,” Peter says. “Jerk.”

He bites vindictively at the inside of Johnny’s thigh to teach him a lesson, but judging by the way Johnny’s cock twitches and the pleasured moan that leaves his lips, it wasn’t the lesson he’d intended.

Does Johnny—is he into—oh, god. They’ve only been dating for six months—Johnny moved into Peter’s apartment exactly three days after they met, and they haven’t looked back since—so Peter’s still getting to know everything Johnny likes in bed. It’s a subject he’d love to devote his life to studying.

He loves finding new ways to send Johnny into paroxysms of pleasure. His reaction to Peter’s bite—it’s something Peter will definitely be exploring later, when he can take his time and make Johnny fall blissfully apart.

Right now he has to send Johnny back to his yoga studio, so there’s a limit to how rough he can get, but tonight? Oh, tonight, he can tie Johnny up, bite him everywhere, and mark him, his bite marks like so many small brands in Johnny’s beautiful golden skin, so he can make sure that every time Johnny moves he can feel exactly who he belongs to.

The mere thought is—okay. Okay. Peter—Peter needs to get inside of Johnny now. He gets up and fishes the lube out of the glove compartment. He’s going to need plenty of that.

He shrugs out of his clothes as fast as he can while Johnny watches appreciatively. He doesn’t miss the way Johnny bites his lip hungrily when he catches sight of Peter’s cock. “Don’t worry, babe,” he says soothingly. “I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

“Yeah?” Johnny says. “When? Sometime this year? You’re taking forever, Abe.”

Peter bends down and kisses Johnny apologetically. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were so desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,” Johnny says. “I’m doing this as a favor to you, really.”

Peter chortles as he sits back down, reaches for the lube, and starts to coat his fingers with it. “A favor to me?” he says. “You tried to seduce me first.”

“I’m gonna get you to sexy cop roleplay with me one of these days, Garfinkel,” Johnny smiles.

Peter presses an affectionate kiss against Johnny’s smooth thigh, and says, “Maybe for your birthday.”

“I’m holding you to that, lawman,” Johnny says.

Johnny’s fingers dig into the seat when Peter’s fingers finally press against Johnny’s rim. He needs to loosen Johnny up enough to work a slick finger inside, but Johnny’s too tight. He grunts, pained, when Peter tries to push in too soon.

It’s fine. Peter can make this work. He’s a creative guy. He’ll get Johnny’s hole looking like the fucked-out mess it should be soon enough.

Peter has the perfect solution, and Johnny doesn’t seem to dislike it, judging by the choked-off cry he gives when Peter starts to mouth at the head of his cock, finger still circling insistently at his rim.

Peter pins Johnny’s hips in place, hooks one of Johnny’s legs over his shoulder, and tosses the other against the back of the couch, spreading Johnny’s legs wide so he can suck Johnny off with ease. It’s not long before he can feel Johnny’s hole relaxing enough to let him in. He manages to get a finger in, all the way to the knuckle, and then two, and then it’s simply a matter of prying Johnny apart wide enough to make room for Peter’s cock.

Johnny moans blissfully all the while, his fingers clutching desperately at Peter’s hair as he bobs up and down around Johnny’s cock, his body covered in an increasingly dark pink flush.

Johnny makes it, surprisingly, until Peter works a third finger in before he comes. Peter’s been working both ends of Johnny’s prostate relentlessly for the last couple of minutes, so it’s a miracle he held out this long.

“I’m gonna come,” Johnny warns, his fingers digging into Peter’s scalp, his eyes scrunched tightly shut, the heel of his foot digging rhythmically into Peter’s back with every thrust of Peter’s fingers. “Abe! I’m—please, fuck—I’m gonna—”

Peter slides his mouth off Johnny’s cock long enough to say, “So come,” and then he swallows as much of Johnny’s cock down his throat as he can, and that’s when Johnny loses it. He cries out and nearly arches off the seat, convulses around Peter’s fingers over and over, spills hot streams of come down Peter’s throat, and Peter swallows it all.

And that’s it. Peter can’t wait any longer. He needs to—his hands are shaking with the need to be inside of Johnny, to feel that clenching wet heat all around his cock. He’s been holding on as long as he can to make sure this is good for Johnny, but he can’t anymore.

Johnny’s mouth falls open when Peter presses the blunt head of his cock against Johnny’s hole.

“Can I?” Peter asks breathlessly.

The way Johnny eyes are fixed on Peter’s painfully hard red cock, waiting to fill him up, is ravenous. “Yeah,” he says, dropping his knees open as wide as he can. “Do it. Want you to come in me, Abe.”

That makes Peter groan and catch Johnny’s mouth in a rough, needy kiss.

He kisses and bites slowly at Johnny’s plush mouth, tongue delving inside, until he’s moaning and scratching at Peter’s shoulders in a way that says he’s ready to be fucked again, and that’s when Peter starts to work his cock inside of Johnny.

He always forgets how molten hot and soft it is inside of Johnny, how Johnny’s body opens so easily, so willingly, to make room for Peter’s aching cock, how he clamps down hard around Peter, as though he’s trying desperately to suck him in further.

Peter’s been holding himself back for Johnny’s sake, but he can’t anymore. Johnny’s body is begging for everything Peter has to give, and Peter can never deny it anything—he slams inside of Johnny, as deep as he’ll go.

Johnny gives a garbled shout at finding himself so abruptly stuffed full of Peter’s cock. Peter rocks his hips slowly at first, giving Johnny time to adjust, but his self-restraint only lasts so long.

In no time at all, he’s slamming into Johnny balls deep, hard enough to jar his body upwards on the seat and send his head thumping against the car door. Johnny reaches an arm up over his head to keep himself from hitting it again, which gives him the leverage he needs to rock his hips up against Peter’s and make Peter’s stutter in their harsh rhythm.

Peter fucks into Johnny ruthlessly, putting the full weight and force of his body into each bone-jarring thrust, and Johnny loves every second of it.

Johnny’s arching his back, throwing his head back, and moaning in shameless delight through it all. This is the way Johnny deserves to be fucked every day of his life, and Peter’s grateful, so very grateful, that he’s the one who gets to do it.

There’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be than other than right here, wrapped tight in Johnny’s warm embrace, cock thrusting deep, deep, deep inside of Johnny.

He’s glad they’re all alone out here, because otherwise someone surely would have heard them, would have taken note of the way their jeep is rocking back and forth with the force of the fucking Johnny’s taking so sweetly, so pliantly, for Peter.

When Peter slips a hand between them, Johnny’s rock hard again already. Johnny keens when Peter starts tugging at his cock roughly, exactly the way Johnny likes. “Oh, god,” he groans. “Abe, I can’t, it’s too soon—”

“C’mon, c’mon,” Peter says impatiently, tilting Johnny’s hips back to get a better angle so that he’s hitting Johnny’s prostate with every other thrust. “Come for me one more time. You can do it, baby. For me.”

Johnny’s tossing his head from side to side and gasping for air. “I’m t-trying,” he says, “Abe, I’m trying but I—”

His mouth works silently.

Peter knows Johnny’s close, he’s so close, closer than he realizes—Peter can feel it in the way he’s squeezing down so gloriously tightly around Peter’s cock. He knows Johnny’s body well enough to know what that means. All he needs is—

Peter leans forward, covering Johnny’s body with his own, buries his fingers in Johnny’s hair, and wrenches Johnny’s head viciously to one side. Johnny gasps, while his body tenses expectantly.

“You’re going to come,” Peter says, right in Johnny’s ear, hips not stilling in their steady rhythm. “You’re going to come because I’m telling you that you are—“ He twists his hand mercilessly around Johnny’s cock. “—and you do what I tell you to.”

And that’s it, that’s all Johnny needs, because the next thing Peter knows, he’s wailing and thrashing and coming all over himself. Peter’s seen him come this hard hundreds of times, but every time he does he feels as though he has been granted a rare privilege. Holy fuck, it’s the hottest thing Peter’s ever seen. It makes his mouth water, desire curl low in his gut.

Peter doesn’t last long after that. He thrusts in hard once, twice, thrice, and then his orgasm slams into him like a freight train—he comes too, spilling hot and sticky spurts of come deep inside of Johnny as Johnny encouragingly shouts, “Yes, yes, fuck yes!”

Peter collapses on top of him, crushing him into the seat, and he doesn’t pull out right away either, even though he knows Johnny must be oversensitive after coming twice. Somehow, he can’t bring himself to move. He wants to stay here forever, rocking his hips against Johnny’s, his softening cock nestled snug in the velvety softness of Johnny’s insides, mouth sucking wet kisses on the skin of Johnny’s neck, Johnny’s fingers skimming softly down his back, the heels of his feet digging into the small of Peter’s back.

This is his idea of heaven.

For some reason Peter can’t quite pinpoint he feels…overcome by twelve different kinds of emotions. Like his whole world has just been rocked to its core.

Peter doesn’t get it. The sex was great, as always, but it wasn’t that great. Peter feels...the way he remembers feeling when he invited Johnny back to his dingy little apartment in New York City on their first date and they wound up having sex on Peter's battered old couch and falling asleep later on his lumpy mattress. It had been...one of those magical nights that felt as though it went on forever. Peter hadn't wanted it to end.

Neither had Johnny, evidently, since he'd moved in the next morning, and now here they are, six months later, waiting to be married.

“That was…intense,” Johnny says. He sounds a little out of breath.

Oh, so he feels it too.

“Mm,” Peter says, more interested in nibbling at Johnny’s collar bone than he is in forming sentences.

“Maybe we should go without having sex for a few days more often, if this is what it feels like,” Johnny muses.

“No,” Peter says, and grinds his cock inside of Johnny again, which is still hard enough to make Johnny gasp, his eyelids flutter shut, a slow red blush crawl up his neck. “We definitely shouldn’t.”

There’s no way Peter’s giving up fucking Johnny for any amount of time. It’s not worth it. Not worth missing out on this.

“Fine,” Johnny says. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “Caveman.”

Peter’s not sure how long they lie there, but eventually he works up the strength to tear himself away, mostly because he wants to inspect his handiwork. He pushes Johnny’s legs up, and, sure enough, Johnny’s hole is a wet, pink, puffy mess, twitching a little as though it’s begging to be filled again.

It looks beautiful. Just the way it should always look. The way it always would if Peter had his way.

Peter’s mouth goes dry at the sight. He wants to fuck Johnny again, but it’s far too soon, his orgasm too intense.

“Take a picture, why don’t you,” Johnny says, voice muffled by the arm he’s got covering his face. “It’ll last longer.”

Peter knows Johnny’s being sarcastic, but— “Can I?” he ventures. “But really.”

Johnny peers up at him from under his arm, trying to decide if Peter’s serious. Peter doesn’t know what Johnny sees in his face, but it’s enough to convince Johnny that he means it.

Johnny swallows and hides his face in the crook of his elbow again, but it doesn’t hide his blush. Whether it’s from arousal or embarrassment, Peter doesn’t know, and he certainly doesn’t know which he’d prefer. The thought that Johnny could still blush like a schoolboy after being fucked so thoroughly in the back seat of a car is endearing. “Yeah,” he says. “All right. If you want.”

At Peter’s request, Johnny poses—he grabs the backs of his knees, pulls his legs up, and holds himself open for Peter and his camera.

Peter takes a picture of him like that, covered in come and sweat and Peter’s teeth marks, legs spread wide, blue eyes fixed intensely on Peter rather than the camera, as though he’s offering himself up for Peter to come fuck again.

Oh, god. One of these days, Johnny is going to be the death of Peter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update this by June 15. If I haven't, someone go yell at me on my [ tumblr.](http://titanstogetherr.tumblr.com)


End file.
